


Paper Hearts

by jooles1993



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6500419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooles1993/pseuds/jooles1993
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He made me believe he actually had a heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ink Stains

I spent my days with ink on my fingers. An occupational hazard, I suppose. It forever irked my mother; she hated anything with a stain. My fingers, always with a slight tinge of black and blue ink, were her favourite source of complaint.

I had always found it interesting that the thing she most despised about my job was not the lack of money or prestige associated with it, but the ink stains. I, however, took the opposite view. As a naïve teenager fresh out of Hogwarts, I’d blindly stumbled into the world of professional writing without a thought to how I’d pay next month’s rent. Ink stains were relatively unimportant when compared to eviction.

It was only on that particular day, the thirteenth of July, 2002, that I started to share her distaste for the stains. No matter how much I liked my bohemian lifestyle, an up-scale function (where my presence was unfortunately required) was not the place for a girl with stained fingers and a ragtag wardrobe. 

Hence, I found myself seated on the floor outside my closet, surrounded by most of my clothes, with absolutely nothing to wear. It was a classic dilemma, one experienced by every woman at least once in her life. 

Not only did I not have a suitable dress or top/pants combination, I also didn’t own any presentable shoes. In other words, the evening was doomed to be a disaster. 

I reached for one of the many sheets of parchment littered around my flat, and hastily scribbled a note pleading my sister for help. Daphne was a far better choice for my fashion confidant that one of my own friends. She, for one, didn’t share my taste in clothes, and two, she had a knack for fabric alteration charms. 

“Tori, you promised after last time you would go and buy some decent clothes,” Daphne said, apparating directly into my bedroom. 

“Geez, Daph, you could’ve at least apparated to the other side of the door. Etiquette and all that,” I replied, though I was not offended by her actions in the least. Teasing her was amusing, however. 

“You invited me in your note; I think that disqualifies my direct apparition from the list of social ‘do not’s’,” she replied, before setting to work on solving my dilemma. 

I watched her sort through my piles of unsuitable clothing, slightly disturbed at just how good an impression my sister had just done of our late mother. _Dear_ Victoria Greengrass had loved to live life by the rules, etiquette being top of the list, right alongside social obligations. I, of course, was considered a failure in pure-blood circles, pursuing an ‘artistic’ lifestyle and all. Daphne, with her respectful job in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, was very much the favourite daughter. 

“I think this situation might call for some transfiguration, Tor.” 

The sound of my disappointed sister pulled me from my musings, and I looked up at her, sighing. 

“Go ahead. But if you ruin anything…”

Well, truthfully I wouldn’t have minded, most of my clothes were several years old and with more than a few holes. 

I found myself, an hour later, wearing what had previously been an incredibly faded pair of jeans (with little decorative flowers on the hem, I might add) and an orange top I’d never seen before, transformed into something that was, well, actually _suitable_ for the event. 

“Wow, Tori, you actually _look_ like a Greengrass now. Rather than an ‘artistic type’, as Mum called it,” Daphne said, folding her arms in front of her with a satisfied grin. 

“Gee, thanks Daph,” I rolled my eyes at my reflection in the spotted mirror mounted on my wall, “that’s just what I’ve always wanted, to look like a part of the family.” 

My reflection promptly stuck its tongue out at me. Lovely mirror, that one. Came cheap, though. 

“Aw, come on, we’re not that bad. Dad doesn’t care for the society crap at all now that Mum’s gone.” 

“I know that, but he still disapproves of my career choices,” I replied vaguely, twisting my hair up on top of my head with my wand. 

“He always will. The only way you’ll impress him is if you marry well.” Daphne smirked. 

I threw a shoe at her for that.

“Not funny,” I replied, before grabbing my things and shooing her out of my room. 

“Time to go. I’ve got to leave, or else I’ll be late.” I locked the front door behind me quickly, shivering slightly at the drop in temperature. 

It might be the middle of July, but that never guaranteed a warm night in London. 

“Have fun,” Daphne said, smirking slightly at me before disapparating. 

I watched her leave, before doing a last minute brush down of my hair and clothes. Usually I wouldn’t care, but being at these sorts of events brings out a vain streak in just about anybody.   

*

I appeared in the marble-floored lobby, feeling distinctly out of place despite my new attire. I’d been to a few functions like this before, with my parents and Daphne, but being back at one after several years absence felt a little odd, to say the least. 

“Ah, Astoria! Right on time.” 

I turned to see a short, rather thin, man standing behind me in a tasteful yet not overly expensive suit. 

“You must be Mr Creevey,” I said, smiling warmly and extending my hand. 

He grasped it firmly, his nod confirming that he was, in fact, Creevey.

“Well, come on then,” he said rather impatiently, leading me into the grand ballroom. 

As we stepped across the threshold, I couldn’t help but marvel at the extraordinary string of circumstances that had led me here. The only reason I was on the arm of Mr Creevey tonight was because my agent happened to know his cousin, and had passed on my manuscript for him to read. Originally, all I’d wanted from him was a short interview, but apparently he’d liked my manuscript so much that he wanted to help me secure the last few necessary interviews. 

I wasn’t entirely sure how he was planning on doing _that_ , but I supposed that he must have had it all figured out.

“So, Astoria, I read that manuscript of yours. Quite original, writing a book about the war and _not_ devoting at least half of it to the Golden Trio,” he said, smiling as he fetched us two gillywaters. 

“Yes, well, I thought a few of the unsung heroes deserved to be heard,” I replied vaguely, well aware that Mr Creevey was only impressed with my work because I’d devoted an entire chapter to his brother Colin. 

“Absolutely right. I particularly loved the one about the man setting up wards around every Muggle residence on his street. Lovely story, that one,” he said, taking a generous sip of his drink before leading me over to a group of wealthy-looking men in suits far more expensive than his. 

“I believe you wanted to interview Narcissa Malfoy?” he asked, looking to me for confirmation.

I nodded, and I saw a man step apart from the crowd, stepping towards us. 

“Unfortunately, Dennis, my mother is unable to attend tonight. Whoever _she_ is, she can send her questions via O.W.L. You know we don’t do face-to-face interviews,” the man said haughtily, looking down his nose at me. 

Draco Malfoy. Of course. 

We’d grown up in the same circles, he was even in the same year as my sister, dated one of her friends actually, but we’d never had much to do with each other. Since the war, he’d been busy cleaning up the name of Malfoy, setting up numerous charities, ratting out other Death Eaters, essentially making himself and his family look good in every way possible. 

The general impression now was that his mother and he were of the good sort, though Lucius Malfoy was one to tread carefully around. Lucius had been rather more involved in the whole torture and dark magic gig than the other Malfoy members. Of course, all three of them had been granted a reprieve courtesy of Uncle Harry, since Narcissa had saved his life. 

It was this act that made me want to talk to her. Unfortunately, as Draco had pointed out, none of the Malfoys had ever given an interview. 

“I don’t see why I would let another insignificant reporter trample all over my family’s name, paint us as villains and then _print_ it for the whole community to see,” Malfoy said, sneering at Creevey. 

“I’m not a reporter.” I put in, slightly intimidated by the look on his face, but I continued anyway. 

“I’m writing a book about the unsung heroes of the war, and I’d like to include your mother. Of course, if you’re willing, I’d also like to interview you, since you were instrumental to Harry Potter and the Order’s victory, but-“

“Unsung heroes? Really?” He cut in, sarcasm thick in his tone, the sneer still in place. 

Did the man do _anything_ but sneer? It really was a little unnerving. 

“I find it quite an individual take on the war, Draco. Nothing like it’s ever been done before. Harry, Ron and Hermione all think it’s a good idea,” Creevey interjected, sounding scarily like my agent. 

Wait, _Harry Potter_ had read my manuscript? Really?

And he liked it? 

It took all I had to not let my jaw drop to the floor right then. 

“I’ll ask mother and send you an O.W.L with her answer,” Draco finally replied coldly, before stalking back off to the rich-looking businessmen. 

“Well, that was friendly,” I said as we walked away, sipping my drink. 

“For Draco Malfoy, that was practically a smile and a hug. He agreed to ask Narcissa, that’s as much as we could possibly hope for,” Creevey said, before spotting someone in the distance and smiling widely. 

“I’m sorry, but I’ve just spotted an old friend. You’ll be alright by yourself for a moment, won’t you?” Creevey asked, barely looking at me for an answer before he rushed off to talk to a brunette standing by the door. 

I stood by the refreshment table, my drink in my hand, feeling completely and utterly pathetic. Here I was, in a room full of some of the most influential people in Wizarding Britain, and I was standing _by myself_. After just being snubbed by Draco Malfoy, and ditched by Dennis Creevey. 

Ah, the life of a writer.

I watched surreptitiously as Malfoy left the party of businessmen, a firewhisky in hand, and sauntered over to a leggy blonde. 

Of course. 

I turned away, turning my gaze instead to Creevey and his friend by the door. However, a Malfoy of a different kind caught my attention. Lucius Malfoy, generally shunned at these kinds of events, was walking through the door. Well, that was certainly interesting. If I _had_ been a journalist, I would’ve rushed up asking for a quote of some kind. 

As it was, I took a subtler route. I stood still, observing as he marched up to his son, placing a pale hand on his shoulder. They both quickly retreated from the crowd, heading into the deserted corridor. I followed, hidden by shadows. If the Malfoys refused to provide me a direct quote, I might as well try and see what I could get via snooping. 

I _was_ also fairly curious about what they could be discussing in the privacy of the corridor.            

“Draco, you really must stop fooling around. It’s not helping your reputation.”

“What reputation, father? I have a respectable job, what else do you want? That’s more than you can say,” Draco replied, and I was shocked to hear the anger and bitterness in his tone. 

Clearly there was a lot more to this relationship than most father and son bonds. 

“Do yourself a favour, Draco, find a nice pureblood witch and settle down. It’ll make your mother happy.”

Lucius had wisely chosen to ignore Draco’s jibe, and I couldn’t help but admire him for it. I’d expected him to rise to the occasion. 

There was a pause as Draco considered his father’s words. There was obviously more to all this than they were saying, the mention of his mother seemed to carry a lot of weight. I could see, from my discreet position behind a potted plant, Draco’s shoulders tense up at his father’s last sentence. 

Lucius left first, without a response from his son. I stood still, unable to move without exposing myself until the younger Malfoy left. 

“You do realise that I know you’re there, don’t you?” 

The shock of hearing his voice caused me to stumble, and I tripped over the plant, landing with a thud in the corridor at Malfoy’s feet. He didn’t look impressed. 

No wonder, since he’d known I was spying on him. 

“Hi,” I said meekly, standing up with as much grace as I could muster. 

“Hear anything interesting?” he asked coldly, his arms crossed. 

For once, the sneer wasn’t in place. If I’d had to guess, I would say that the mention of his mother had shaken him somewhat. 

“Intriguing would be more accurate,” I replied, glaring at him in challenge. I wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted with me, aside from calling me out on my eavesdropping. 

There was a tense moment when we both stared at each other. I refused to back down, and was rather surprised when, after only a moment or two, he relented, his gaze moving to the floor and his shoulders slumping. 

I stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to do. He was obviously troubled, but we weren’t friends. We weren’t even acquaintances. 

“Er…is everything ok?” I finally squeaked, half prepared to run if he suddenly snapped at me. I wouldn’t put it past him. 

He looked up at me slowly, grey eyes meeting brown. 

“No,” He replied flatly, before heading back into the ballroom. 

I stood frozen to my spot on the floor, gazing after him. _What_ had that meant? 


	2. Procrastination At Its Finest

“Astoria, I’d like you to meet Terry Boot.” 

I shook hands with the smiling man before me, one of the five people left on my list of interviews. 

“Hello,” Terry said, his eyes full of warm cheerfulness. I couldn’t help but compare his attitude with that of Malfoy’s last night; Terry apparently had no qualms about being interviewed. 

“Right, well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Creevey said, shuffling out of the room. 

We were in Terry’s house, Creevey had successfully secured me an interview last night. I’d been quite surprised when Terry had replied immediately. I supposed that being hailed as a hero was quite flattering; a chance that many people would jump at.

“Alright Mr Boot, if you don’t mind, I would like to ask you some questions about the weeks leading up to the Final Battle and your involvement with the group known as Dumbledore’s Army,” I proposed, my Quick-Quotes Quill hovering near my left hand, several scrolls of parchment nearby. 

“What do you want to know?” 

And so it began. The interview with Terry was nothing special, I asked the standard questions and received responses typical for someone who was part of the DA. I decided that I’d write a piece on Boot’s involvement on the night of the Final Battle, including his input on the diadem and his heroic fighting that occurred later on. Boot had, according to several of my sources, saved the life of his two fellow Ravenclaws, Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein. I decided that it was a story worth telling. 

I left the Boot residence with a stack of notes, and apparated directly onto my doorstep, intent upon writing up a new chapter. Unfortunately, the presence of a frizzy haired blonde on said doorstep put those plans on hold. 

“Hello Reno,” I said dully, letting myself (and by extension, her) into the house. 

Though the building I resided in probably wouldn’t qualify as a house. It was more of a…well, a shack. The roof only occasionally caved in. It wasn’t even in that bad of a neighbourhood (though it was on a dodgy back street in an average neighbourhood, but in my mind that was better than a bad neighbourhood). 

Daphne had been trying to get me to move for months; what she didn’t realise was that I didn’t have enough money to move. Truthfully, I didn’t really have any money, which was why I should have been working on my book instead of entertaining my crazy best friend who turns up on my doorstep without invitation.

“I swear this place gets more dilapidated each time I come over,” Reno said conversationally, summoning herself one of my butterbeers (the second last one, I’ll have to remember to go shopping…once I have money). 

“Well, Reno, if you want to chip in some gold for a renovation, feel free,” I replied, dumping my stack of parchment on the counter. I heard a suspicious crunching sound as I did so, and lifted up the parchment cautiously to check what it was. Apparently, I’d just squashed the remains of a meat pie. 

Whoops. 

I waved my wand, sending the remains of the meat pie into to the sink, nearly knocking Reno out in the process. She ducked just in time, sending me a scathing look to which I replied with only a cheeky grin. 

“So, what exactly are you doing here?” I said casting a wordless scourgify on the counter and dishes, something I should’ve done about a week ago. Better late than never, I suppose.

“I dumped Brandon,” she stated, and I refrained from rolling my eyes. 

Reno was renowned for going through guys faster than I go through parchment. Her latest conquest, ‘Brandon’, was, from what she’d told me, a reserve Chaser for the Montrose Magpies and therefore quite a catch. 

“Why?”

I didn’t really want to know the answer, but I played the role of the dutiful best friend anyway. 

“Apparently, he was cheating on me with some receptionist from St Mungo’s,” Reno stated matter-of-factly. 

Knowing Reno, she didn’t actually care. She probably would’ve dumped him for some reason any day now. 

“Oh, Tori, I have a few ideas for ‘Oh My Hippogriff!’ that I wanted to bounce off you.” 

“What’s ‘Oh My Hippogriff!’?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

I’d spent years perfecting the art of raising one eyebrow in the mirror. I must say, I was quite proud of this achievement, especially since my mirror liked to poke fun at me while I practiced.

“Oh, that’s the new title for the play I’m working on; I decided that ‘Priori I-Can-Date-Em’ didn’t really work.” Reno shrugged. 

Right. Well, I suppose ‘Oh My Hippogriff!’ is better than the alternative. Reno’s been working on a play ever since we left Hogwarts. She’d spent three years at the Wizarding Academy of the Dramatic Arts (I’m pretty sure all they learnt was how to get really, really drunk) studying acting and the art of playwriting. She’s always acting in plays written by various classmates, but so far she’s never managed to finish her own play. 

“I was thinking of changing the setting to Hogwarts, as everyone can relate to it, but I’m not sure if it’ll work with my plot, because-"

Reno was cut off by an owl soaring through my window, flying straight into her face. I giggled at her dumbstruck expression, snatching the letter the owl had been carrying. It was addressed to me in emerald ink, the handwriting neat and sharp. 

“What the hell was that?” Reno screeched, scaring the poor owl, which had been perched on my windowsill, preening. 

“A letter, obviously.”

I ignored her eye-roll, slitting the envelope, made of paper, not parchment, with my fingernail. The letter inside was also made of paper; it felt odd in my hands, too light and almost fragile. 

Dear Miss Greengrass,

My son just informed me of your request for an interview. I apologise for not making an appearance last night, I realise it must have inconvenienced you. However, I would be happy to answer any questions you have, despite the impression Draco may have left on you.

Does tomorrow afternoon suit? 

Sincerely, 

Narcissa Malfoy

Well, that was certainly a shock. I hadn’t even written her an owl, like I’d been intending to after Malfoy suggested it last night. I flipped the paper over; scrawling a hasty yes with one of my many quills (I had at least 3 that lived in my bedroom, another two in the living area, and one in the kitchen). The poor frightened owl had returned obviously instructed to wait for a reply. It was eyeing Reno warily, but took my letter without complaint, heading off into the sky. 

“Who was that from?” Reno’s eyes followed the owl until it was a speck against the blue summer sky. 

I hesitated. Reno knew about my book, but she would still be shocked by my correspondence with Narcissa Malfoy. If I told her about the letter, I’d also have to explain last night – I didn’t think I could handle her judging comments. Reno was not at all sympathetic to the Malfoys or others in their social circle. In fact, I don’t think she’d like me at all if I hadn’t been in Hufflepuff with her. Apparently that made me different from all the other purebloods.

“Just someone I need to interview for the book,” I replied vaguely. 

At least, it was the truth. Reno accepted it, and went back to rattling on about her play. I stared out the open window, not quite sure how I felt about interviewing Narcissa Malfoy. I’d never met her, but she seemed intimidating. 

*

Somehow, it had gotten to be evening, Reno was still at my house and I hadn’t written a single word of my chapter. 

“Oh, God, Reno, you’ve got to go! I have to get this chapter done, or else Vine’s going to kill me-“

“Oh, shut it,” Reno said from her position on my stained blue sofa. 

“It’s too late to get anything done now, come to the Leaky. I’m meeting Tabby.” 

Reno looked at me, grinning slightly. She’d always had a way of getting me to do exactly what she wanted. I’m not quite sure how, I think it was a combination of blackmail, pathetic looking facial expressions and generally irritating behaviour. 

I cast a quick glance over my apartment, taking in the messy kitchen, the not as messy living room and the stack of notes waiting to be written out. 

Eh, how much harm could dinner at the Leaky do? 

“Fine, I’ll come, but it’s your shout,” I bargained, grabbing my wand and bag. 

In contrast to last night, tonight was quite warm. You can never really tell what London weather was going to be like, there was one day last week where in poured down in the morning, only to have the sun come out in the afternoon. 

“Done.”

*

The Leaky was busy. A group of hags sat beside the fireplace, leering at us as we stepped out. 

“Hey, Hannah, table?” Reno shouted over the crowd to the blonde woman behind the bar. 

Hannah Abbot had been a few years ahead of us at Hogwarts. She’d started working at the Leaky a few weeks ago; in my opinion, Tom was quickly training her up to be his replacement. Hannah pointed us to a table by the door, situated next to a rowdy group of blokes dressed in Puddlemere colours. We pushed and shoved our way through the crowd, falling gratefully into our chairs. 

“Where’s Tabby?” I asked Reno, raising my voice so I could be heard over the crowd.

“She’ll be along in a minute, she said we’d meet at seven, and it’s just five to.”

We settled down, ordered a butterbeer, and surveyed the room. The Leaky, despite having only one window, always managed to have a certain brightness to it. The fireplace that we’d come through cast a warm glow over the room, the smell of butterbeer and steak came from all corners of the establishment. 

The fireplace flickered green, and a short brunette stumbled out, almost knocking over a balding wizard in the process. 

“Tabby!” Reno called, also spotting our friend, waving her hands above her head to catch her attention. 

Half the pub turned to look at us. While the stares caused me to blush, Reno just gestured for Tabby to come over, ignoring our audience.   
Tabby rushed over, tripping over the foot of someone who looked suspiciously like a vampire and ended up sprawled just shy of our table.   
I sighed, extending a hand to help her up. 

“How are you, Tabs?” 

“How d’you think?” she retorted, sending me a scathing glare, before taking her seat and grinning apologetically. 

“So I take it work wasn’t fun?” Reno asked, sipping her butterbeer. 

Tabby rolled her eyes, her own butterbeer soaring over to our table courtesy of Hannah, nearly dumping its contents on the blokes at the table next to ours. One of them looked up angrily, his eyes following the tankard to our table. 

“Terry?”

I stood up, gaping at the man on the adjacent table. It was Terry, who’d I’d interviewed only hours ago. 

“Astoria? Astoria Greengrass?”

Oh, I so love it when someone uses my last name. All the prestige, it’s, not desirable at all. 

“Reno, Tabby, this is Terry Boot. I interviewed him earlier this afternoon.”

They all said their introductions, and then, somehow, our tables were pushed together, several hours had passed and the butterbeer had been replaced with firewhisky. 

“But-but-but…I am all knowing! I couldn’t possibly be wrong!” Reno whined, her voice unnaturally loud in the now almost empty pub. 

“Lies, Reno, lies!” I yelled, leaning in close to her face. 

Tabby just laughed in the background, a hobby of hers. 

“But…what does an electric toothbrush even do?” 

Confused, intoxicated Reno is probably my favourite person in the world. She’s so amusing. 

“It makes this brrrr sound -“ 

It was then that Tabby decided to fall over again. Well, I don’t know if ‘decided’ would be the right term, since falling over seems to be imbedded into Tabby’s being. Somehow she ended up with a bottle of firewhisky all over her, much to Reno’s amusement. I, however, being the kind and caring friend I am, escorted her to the bathroom. As we left, I heard Reno say quietly:

“I like apples.”

Honestly, she is the oddest person when drunk. 

The bathroom at the Leaky Cauldron is nothing special. It’s clean, but that’s about it. The mirror, covered in spots and cracked in the bottom right corner, has a habit of sharing all the bathroom gossip with anyone and everyone who enters the room. 

I let Tabby do her thing, choosing to lean against the wall beside the mirror (that goes by Margaret) and inspect my nails. Tabby prattled on in the background, something to do with Reno’s brother Harley. She had a bit of a thing for him, something she adamantly refused to mention to Reno. Tabby had been in the year above Reno and I at Hogwarts, so we hadn’t really known her back then. Reno’s brother Harley had been in the same year, a beater for Hufflepuff, and Tabby hadn’t looked anywhere else since her 6th year. Several years later, her situation was now bordering on pathetic. 

“What I don’t understand is how he can date that imbecile of a redhead, and not even glance at me? All she’s got over me is a flaming head of curls!”

Tabby’s ranting grew louder as she came out and up to the mirror that promptly commented on her woes. 

“You know, dear, if you added a little bit of rouge to your cheeks, he wouldn’t be able to miss you-“

It’s funny, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been in the Leaky’s bathroom waiting for Tabby to finish spilling her heart out to Margaret the Mirror.

*

“So, Ast…Ast…ria,” Terry slurred, “you wanna get a drink sometime?”

My knees buckled slightly as I dragged Terry out the door of the Leaky, we were the last of our party to exit. Reno and Tabby were just ahead, Reno with her head in a trashcan. 

“I think you’ve had enough to drink for the moment, Terry,” I replied, once again wondering how I was the only remotely sober person left.

Terry stumbled, clutching onto my arm as we started off down the London street. 

“Nah, I mean later, not now.”

Oh, well, this has the potential to be extremely awkward. If he didn’t mean it, and I said yes…it would be odd when it inevitably came up later. If I said no, I risked hurting his feelings...and in this state, who knew what would happen. 

“How about this? You ask me again in two days’ time, and I’ll give you an answer.”

A diplomatic solution, I must say. 

The four of us (Reno, Tabby, Terry and I) somehow managed to return Terry to his apartment. It took three tries, mind you, and one very scared elderly couple. We eventually returned to my place, Tabby and Reno wasting no time in passing out on my couch. 

I eyed the pile of paper, the physical reminder of the book I had to write, and sighed. I was awake, and no doubt the vomiting that would soon come from my two companions would keep me up anyway. 

Reluctantly, I dragged myself over to the table, waving my wand as I did so, which caused the stack of papers to land unceremoniously on the wooden surface. I grabbed the nearest quill (I think this one was a present from Daphne back in my Hogwarts days) and began to write.


	3. Approaching Deadlines

In hindsight, staying up till 4am to finish the latest chapter of my book probably wasn’t a smart idea. It was now midday; I had three owls waiting for my replies, two hung-over friends in my apartment, a large pile of dirty dishes (though that’s fairly normal) and no clean clothes.

I’d only remembered around seven that the interview with Narcissa Malfoy was this afternoon. It was now eleven, which left me with only a couple of hours in which to get ready. Reno and Tabby weren’t helping matters. 

“Oi, get up!” I yelled at the two sleeping forms on my couch. 

All I received in reply was a vague grunting, so I resulted to whipping out my wand and dousing them in water. Harsh, yet effective. 

“What the hell, Tori!”

Amused, I retreated to my bedroom and the never- ending dilemma that was my closet. Seeing as I’d only called on Daphne for clothes two days ago, I didn’t feel like it was prudent of me to ask for her help again. Instead, I hunted, looking for something, anything that was suitable to wear for an interview with a Malfoy. 

“You know, it’s really not that hard.”

I looked up to see Tabby, looking surprisingly awake considering last night. I stared blankly at her in response. She sighed, turning to rummage through my closet on her own. 

After two minutes, she resurfaced, clutching a relatively normal skirt and top. They weren’t entirely clean, but Tabby, being clumsy, had mastered cleaning spells long ago, to help in embarrassing situations. 

An hour later, I was dressed, full of caffeine, my house was mercifully empty and Tabby had even done the dishes as a thank-you for letting her crash. Out of the three owls I’d received earlier, only one was urgent. 

One was Creevey, asking how the interview with Terry went, the next was from my father reminding me about the family dinner this coming weekend, and the final one was from my agent. 

That one was the urgent one. 

Being me, I answered the first two within ten minutes, and then sufficiently distracted myself with cups of tea and biscuits for the next half an hour, putting off replying to Vine. He wanted an update on my progress, and an estimated time till I would be submitting my final manuscript. 

I had no idea what the estimated time could be. A month, a year, a lifetime…knowing my procrastination skills, it was probably one of the last two. The problem, however, was that I had limited funding and a deadline. The wizarding publishing industry paid me for signing the initial contract, which stated that I had a year to complete the book. It was now approaching ten and a half months. I wouldn’t receive any more money until the manuscript was completed, published and sold. 

Of course, the editor had to look over my manuscript first, which meant, to keep everyone happy, I really should submit it just a little bit before the deadline, though they couldn’t really be mad at me for not doing so. 

Eventually I settled on a vague response, referring to a few chapters I had left to polish, and saying ‘around a month or so’ as my deadline. I was running out of time, and I knew it. However, from my experience with N.E.W.Ts and O.W.Ls, stress and an approaching deadline (and a pinch of fear) were great motivators.

After that, I gathered up some paper and a quill in preparation to head to the Malfoy’s. I only had a rough idea of what I wanted to ask Narcissa – the conversation I overheard between Draco and Lucius kept interfering with my train of thought. 

I apparated to the outskirts of the Malfoy property. I’d been here several times as a girl, for various society functions. The manor was as grand as ever, several peacocks visible from where I stood. As far as I knew, Lucius and Narcissa had put as much effort into restoring the house to its original pre-war state as they had with their family name.

The gates swung open and I walked up the driveway, the ghosts of childhood memories washing over me. I’d always hated the events my parents had dragged Daphne and me to. The imposing front doors swung open just as the gate had, and I found myself in the entrance hall. 

Draco was waiting for me, leaning against the stone staircase. 

“Miss Greengrass,” he said with a curt nod. 

“Malfoy,” I replied, stepping up to meet him by the staircase. 

“Mother’s in the parlour.” 

He set off up the stairs, and I followed two paces behind him. The house was strangely cold for summer, with only a few windows letting sunlight in. Draco was clad in Ministry robes, making me think he’d either just arrived from work, or was just about to leave. Most likely he’d wanted to supervise my interview with his mother.

We approached a room on the second floor, and I saw a rare glimpse of sunlight streaming from within. Obviously Narcissa had opened the curtains. 

“Mother? Astoria Greengrass is here,” Draco announced, standing in the doorway. 

I waited awkwardly behind him, stepping inside the room only once he’d done so himself. Narcissa was seated in an armchair facing the window; the sunlight cast an almost unearthly glow on her pale hair. Her skin was white and chalky, her body fragile. I hadn’t seen her in months, but I could tell she wasn’t well. 

Suddenly, a lot of what had passed between Lucius and Draco made sense. 

Draco showed no signs of offering me a chair, so I dragged one over from beside an expensive-looking wooden table, placing it next to Narcissa’s. 

“Hello, Mrs. Malfoy,” I said formally, my quill and paper floating on their own accord, ready to take notes. 

I heard Draco take a seat in the far corner, but I ignored him. If he was going to be unsociable and taciturn, that was fine with me. Frankly I didn’t need his input in my interview. 

“How are you?”

Narcissa turned to face me, smiling slightly in greeting. This close, I could see the dark circles beneath her eyes. It was clear she wasn’t well, and I would hazard a guess that it wasn’t a mild illness, either, from Draco’s behaviour. 

“I am well enough. Yourself?” she said, her voice slightly rough. 

“I am good. Are you ready to begin? If you feel uncomfortable at any time, or don’t want to answer any of the questions, simply say so,” I said; it was standard interview procedure. 

Narcissa was a special case, being integral to Harry Potter’s victory. However, she wasn’t innocent. She’d done her fair share of bad things during the war, as had her husband and son. Her act on that evening, however, had redeemed them all. Her love for her son had changed the outcome of the wizarding war. 

She nodded, and I began. It didn’t take long to fill sheets of paper with her memories. An hour passed, and Draco hadn’t said a word. Narcissa was often quiet for long periods of time; I let her regain her strength. I had no idea what was wrong with her, and I wasn’t about to ask. It wasn’t my place. 

It was just approaching three o’clock when I bid farewell to Narcissa, and left the room. She barely acknowledged me, returning to staring out the window. I could hear Draco following me out, but I made my way to the entrance hall without acknowledging him. 

“I trust I don’t need to tell you that my mother’s condition is private, and should not be spread around the media?” Draco said suddenly.

I stopped in the middle of the stone hall, turning slowly to face him.

“Draco, you may think I’m an idiot, but I assure you, I never had any intention of alerting anyone to your mother’s illness. That’s your family’s business. I’ve never asked what’s wrong with her, but I will say that I hope she gets better, quickly,” I said, watching his face shift slightly from it's usual cold mask. 

He paused for a moment, considering how to respond. 

“You did well with her, in the interview. Most of our circle still holds reservations when it concerns my family, but you’re different,” he said slowly, studying me. 

I held my head high, feeling oddly like I was being inspected. I never quite understood Draco. He’d told Lucius that he was happy doing what he was, holding a respectable job. Yet, he obviously wanted to please his mother, and according to Lucius, he had to marry well to do so. As archaic as it sounded, I could sympathise. My own mother had held similar views. 

“Draco, I’m sorry for eavesdropping on your conversation the other night, I-”

He cut me off with a wave of his hand. 

“It’s fine.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, I was unsure of what to say. Lately it seemed like I never knew quite what to say to Draco Malfoy, if I were to speak my mind it would be quite impolite and rude. I knew enough of his social activities (unrelated to the upper echelon functions his parents’ also attended) to be able to form an interesting opinion of him. He had definitely improved since his days at Hogwarts, yet I didn’t trust him. 

Something about him intrigued me. I had a feeling I’d be pondering over his inner turmoil for days to come, a product of the writer’s instinct in me. 

“Well, goodbye, Draco,” I said finally, turning to the door. 

“Goodbye, Miss Greengrass. Perhaps I will see you at a society event in the future.”

I turned my head back as he spoke, only just catching the bare whisper of a smile. Confused, I turned and walked out the front door, almost missing his last words. 

“Good luck with the book.”


	4. Problems Arise

“You really should invest in some wards.”

I almost jumped out of my skin seeing Vine apparate directly into my apartment without invitation, barely a foot from where I was eating breakfast. 

Well, I suppose breakfast is a loose definition. I was eating it in the morning (11:45 am is just the morning), but most people, as far as I know, don’t usually eat a piece of chocolate cake accompanied by a cup of tea for breakfast. 

I’ve never been a huge fan of breakfast foods. 

I stared open-mouthed at my agent, who hadn’t replied to the owl I’d sent regarding my deadline three days previous. As per usual, he showed up out of the blue. Without asking, he took off in the direction of my table covered with paper, obviously looking for my manuscript.

Clearly he didn’t believe my vague comment about being on schedule. Funnily enough, I didn’t really believe it either. 

“I swear, Greengrass, if you aren’t done in a month, we will sue you from here to Durmstrang.”

I stayed safely where I was, avoiding the wrath of the small, irate agent. Unfortunately, he was all I’d been able to get as a young, aspiring writer with yet another idea for a book about the war. 

It took him five minutes and three tries at accio but eventually he found my scattered manuscript. It was in several parts, the latest being my draft of Narcissa’s interview. I was actually making progress on it, which was odd. The past few days had been unusually productive. I still had a couple of interviews to collect, though not from anyone incredibly interesting. I had left the boring ones to last, unfortunately. 

Vine flicked through my draft, clearly not happy with the amount of (or lack of) pages. 

“Is this all?” he asked in a condescending tone.

I glared at the top of his head, bent into my manuscript. 

“Currently, yes. I have two more interviews to acquire, and then the final write-up.”

His head snapped up, his beady eyes glaring into mine. 

“I’ll take a copy of this,” he said, waving his wand over my manuscript, a copy appearing in his outstretched hand. 

He unceremoniously chucked the papers back at me (luckily I caught them), before apparating right back out again. 

Friendly man.

An owl soared in my, once again, open window, a letter clutched in its beak. I left my manuscript on the table, taking the letter. It was from Terry, the second owl I’d received from him since the day I’d interviewed him. The first had, as I’d told him to, asked to go out for drinks. 

This one, I saw, was organising that event. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about Terry. He was a nice enough bloke but I hadn’t been in a date-like situation for a long time. As I had my family dinner tonight, I wrote back suggesting tomorrow, Sunday night.

I spent the next few hours writing. I was meeting Daphne around lunchtime to go shopping; she’d suggested a shopping trip so that I had some respectable clothes, and I’d only agreed because she said she’d pay. After that, we’d head to Dad’s house for dinner, which I assumed was just the three of us. 

I apparated to her door, rapping smartly on the wood. 

“Come on in!” she called the door opening for me. 

I walked in to find my sister hopping about, pulling one shoe on her foot while frantically trying to find the other. 

“You do realise you could just accio it, right?” I teased, earning myself a glare. 

“Shut up. I’m tired,” was the reply, but, sure enough, the shoe soared right into her hand. 

It’s rare that I’m the logical one out of the two of us, but it did happen occasionally. I always felt very accomplished when it did.

“Alright, I’m ready!” She grabbed her bag, and we apparated to an alley near the local Muggle shopping centre. 

We’d chosen Muggle shops over wizarding purposefully, they was a lot more variety in the clothing department. Robes were nice, I suppose, if you worked in the Ministry. Fortunately for me, I didn’t. I had one set of rather old dress robes, and that was enough for me. 

We browsed through several stores, nothing catching either of our eyes. Honestly, I was entirely relying on Daphne for this; my tasting in clothing was eclectic. 

“How about this?” Daphne suggested, holding up a fairly plain purple shirt. 

It wasn’t hideous, I’ll give her that. 

It took us six stores, but we eventually gathered a couple of bags of clothes, and Daphne’s supply of gold was sufficiently dented. I’d never liked shopping, so I found the few hours we spent there fairly boring. Daphne, on the other hand, loved these sorts of things. Sometimes I just didn’t understand her at all.

We stopped off at my house to drop off the bags, before heading over to Dad’s. All he’d said in the owl was that we had a family gathering, nothing specific. I assumed he wanted to harass both Daphne and I about getting married and settling down - that’s what he usually did.

My childhood home was not as grand as Malfoy Manor, but it did possess many of the markings of the upper echelon of wizarding society. A wrought-iron fence bordered the property, with the house, not quite big enough to warrant the title of manor surrounded by fairly extensive gardens. We didn’t have any peacocks, but there was a fountain bubbling away. 

The house itself did not possess the gloom of Malfoy Manor. As a child I’d spent many an hour in the gardens, creating fantasies. My bedroom, up on the third floor, had a nice view of them with wide windows. 

Daphne and I approached the glass front doors, and a strange sense of nostalgia swept over me as they opened for us. I only came back here for family occasions, and those were rare. Being here brought back all the memories from summers in my Hogwarts years often spent avoiding Daphne and her friends. She and I had only really become close once the war was over, once we had both grown up enough to see past the differences of our Houses. 

We walked through the house to the sitting room, expecting to find our father in his favourite chair. Instead, he was pacing in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Hello, father,” Daphne said formally like the favourite child she was. 

I just nodded, plopping down on a footstool without a word. 

“Ah, hello girls,” he replied, stopping his pacing and turning to face us.

The worry in his eyes was prominent, his brow furrowed. I quickly glanced at Daphne; her expression telling me that she saw it too. Something was off. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked, seeing no sense in delaying the inevitable. 

There was a pause; the tension in the room was tangible. 

“There seems to be a few…financial issues since your mother passed away,” Dad said slowly, looking at the floor instead of at us. 

There was another long silence. 

“What happened?” Daphne prompted.

Dad then, after yet another silence, went into a long explanation involving funeral costs and other complicated things that went straight over my head. Daphne seemed to understand it all, and they both grew grave. Dinner was similarly solemn, though I began to understand the issue. 

Most of the money appeared to have disappeared over the years, spent on various whims of my mother. There was enough for my father to survive on, but little for either Daphne or I. Inheritance shouldn’t really mean so much to us, yet it did. 

I was a writer; it wasn’t exactly a profession that offered financial security. The state of my house clearly showed that. I hadn’t truly relied on my father for years or my mother before her death. I had estranged myself from my family as quickly as I could once I was out of Hogwarts. 

Now, however, facing the prospect of having to live off my own income…I was struggling as it is. I’d never really devoted a lot of time or energy to thinking of such matters, and now, it felt like reality had hit me in the face. My father was struggling, my sister was stressed and my mother was gone. Draco and Lucius, two people I’d thought were incapable of showing real emotion in public had revealed far too much in that row at the event the other night. Narcissa Malfoy, the survivor of two wars and one of the focuses in my book was sick. 

I felt unsettled and uncomfortable. Things had been gradually disintegrating for some time; apparently I just hadn’t been aware of it.

Without really realising it, I’d left my father and sister, dinner having ended. I grabbed a piece of paper and a quill and headed out. I found myself in a park, somewhere in my neighbourhood. It was silent, the darkness of the night lying thick around me. It was warm, with a slight breeze, and I sat quite comfortably on a wooden bench for hours, writing away. It was only when I rose, stretching out my cramped muscles that I looked over my work. 

_He stood, still and silent as chaos rained down around him. He could have stopped it on that night in his sixth year, but he’d been a coward. Instead, he let it continue. He wasn’t brave enough to stand up then. Now, years later, perhaps he was. I wasn’t to know. I was only privy to small snippets of information, piecing them together like a puzzle. One day I might be lucky enough to reveal the full picture._

It had been a long time since I’d written in the style. Back in my Hogwarts days, I’d written diary type pieces often. I’d found it was a good way to organise my thoughts. Now that my life was scattered and unsure, I reverted to the familiar technique. I had no doubt as to whom I was writing about, yet I couldn’t understand why. Of all the things to have on my mind at that time, why was it him?

Draco Malfoy, he who was a mystery to me. Draco Malfoy, the focus of my mind. Draco Malfoy, the person that might just bring my creative muse out of hiding.


End file.
